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I have only three words for this film:
WHAT.
THE.
FUCK.
miller needs to quit making movies and start selling whatever it is he's smoking. he's passed beyond what you could loosely reffer to as 'style' into the realm of a series of tics, like some kind of mental patient with tourettes syndrome. it's cool, then it's funny, then it's sort of uncomfortable, then it's just agonising.
thank god for sam jackson. if he weren't tearing the film apart with his teeth, you'd want to burst your own head open by beating it against the seat in front of you. he must have realised poor frank was not well in his head, and tried to distract the whole audience from his condition. and nearly succeeds.
it's like miller was trying to do some kind of kill-bill-esque re-appropriation of his influences, except almost no one really knows who will eisner was, or what the spirit is, so he just looks like he's losing his shit with several million dollars and a number of watchable actors.
and does he really really think he's doing a service to the memory of will eisner? or just raping a safely-distant corpse? what the fuck, frank. seriously. |
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